A HISTORY OF ASTROLOGY

I. ANTIQUITY: CLOUDOLOGY

The origins of astrology are cloudy. The sky has been a problem for man ever since the dawn of time, or possibly later that same week. What is the sky? asked primitive man. How far up does it go? What holds it up? How often should it be mowed? Is my neighbor Og’s sky bluer than mine? Does it cross the line into my sky?

Primitive man was extremely territorial.

Early civilizations avoided looking at the sky, afraid that it might get angry and fall on them. Assyrian nobles favored their much taller Hittite slaves as bodyguards, reasoning that if the sky fell, they’d take the brunt of the impact. The ancient Babylonians did attempt an ambitious project to build a tower all the way to the sky. Ultimately, the project failed, however, mainly due to the use of Mafia-connected contractors for construction work.

The Phoenicians first noticed that there were objects suspended in the firmament. This made them an extremely nervous people. They would dart back and forth under the trees, muttering the words “firmament, firmament” to each other, hoping to avoid any falling celestial objects. They invented boats so they could get out from under the sky at short notice. Eventually they sailed their boats so far that they sailed right off the edge of the planet, and were a happier people as a result.

It was the Greeks who first gave us the science of astrology. The Greeks gave the world reason and logic. So far they’ve refused to take them back. Credit for the invention of astrology goes to Optometrus of Thebes, although the role of Estremides the Athenian cannot be discounted. Both men were philosophers, but Optometrus also had a thriving business in time-share goats. The two philosophers were walking together one day in the groves of Academe, hoping to catch a glimpse of Academe’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Minerva the Winsome. They stopped for a moment to gaze at the clouds lazing across the sky.

“That one,” Optometrus said, pointing, “looks just like a bunny rabbit.”

Estremides studied the cloud in question. He had to admit that it looked very like a rabbit.

“And that one” – Optometrus pointed to another cloud – “looks exactly like a duck!”

Estremides was a little put out that Optometrus had noticed these exciting phenomena before he had. He studied the clouds, frowning.

“That one over there looks precisely like Leda being raped by Zeus in the form of a swan,” he said finally.

Optometrus eyed him sideways. “You’re from Athens, aren’t you?”

“These forms cannot be arbitrary,” reasoned Estremides. “They must be signs from the gods.”

“What might the gods be trying to tell us, O Estremides?” Optometrus always said “O Estremides” when he was pulling his friend’s leg, but Estremides never quite caught on.

“To answer that, we must first map all the clouds in the sky, from horizon to horizon, and ascertain the form that each cloud takes. Then we can analyze our data.”

Optometrus had no answer for that, so the next day they went out together to an open field and started drawing their cloud map. There were problems right away. They couldn’t find the cloud that looked like a duck, or the cloud that looked like a bunny. Optometrus was pretty sure he had found the one that looked like Zeus raping Leda, but Estremides insisted it looked more like Apollo raping Daphne. Most of the clouds just looked fluffy and white to Optometrus, but Estremides insisted that each of them must have a particular form – a goat, or a bear, or possibly Hercules cleaning the Augean stables. It was an axiom of science.

"What science?" Optometrus asked.

"The science of cloudology."

Optometrus was heartily sorry he had ever mentioned ducks or bunnies.



detail from cloudology chart, Oxford, circa 1460

The next day was even worse. None of the clouds they had mapped painstakingly the day before could be found. Optometrus suspected that the clouds actually moved across the sky, and said so. Estremides denied the possibility that the gods of Olympus could be so capricious. They became angry at each, and fought, and cursed each other’s resin collections.

The day after, it rained hard, and even Estremides had to admit the clouds flew before the wind. The rain ended before sunset, and the two friends made up. They grilled kebabs and drank ouzo together on Academe’s patio while Minerva flitted in and out, pretending to be looking for her pet gorgon. They watched the stars come out.

Optometrus jerked upright in his seat. He pointed at a cluster of stars in the evening sky.

“If you look at it just right, that looks sort of like a goat.”

“A goat?” Estremides was dubious.

“With a sort of a snake’s tail. And over there, that cluster looks like a virgin.”

Estremides stared at his friend. He was pretty sure Optometrus was pulling his leg, even if he hadn’t said, “O Estremides.”

“And those two stars together, they could be two fish!”

“Starfish?”

“Maybe ... why not?” Optometrus insisted.

Optometrus was enthusiastic now. He got out the mapmaking tools and started drawing. Estremides was skeptical. “What if these stars all blow away tomorrow night?”

“No, no, that’s the beauty of it!" answered Optometrus. "Stars don’t move!”

“You’re sure?”

“Reasonably sure.”

“What’s that you’re drawing?”

“It’s like a half-man, half-horse. With a bow and arrow.” Optometrus pointed to another section of the sky. “See it?”

Estremides didn’t see it. He didn't want to see it. He watched Optometrus working for a while, bored, then he snuck off to bed. Optometrus didn’t even notice.

The next day was sunny again. Optometrus woke late. Estremides was nowhere to be seen. Finally he appeared at sunset, a bunch of scrolls tucked under his arm. He had been hard at it all day, mapping the clouds again.

“I thought we agreed that the clouds just keep moving,” said Optometrus.

“We did agree.”

“Then how do you expect to map them?”

“We can’t ignore the will of the gods just because something’s difficult.”

“You were out there all day by yourself?”

“Minnie helped me.”

“Minerva the Winsome?”

“She’s interested in science. Really a bright kid.”

Optometrus let that pass. “But what about the star signs?” he insisted. “We have to map those. The gods may be trying to tell us something there.”

Estremides clamped his mouth shut.

“What?”

“I don’t buy it. Half-goat half-snake. Half-man half horse. Half-gyros half-calamari.”

“I deleted that last one. After I had a snack.”

“It’s all made up. It's not like cloudology. It’s in your head. It’s not science.”

Maybe not, thought Optometrus, but at least it's doable.

So Estremides spent his days mapping the clouds with the help of Minerva the Winsome. Optometrus spent his nights mapping the stars alone while Estremides was elsewhere. Eventually Optometrus published his work in the Cretan Journal of Cool New Ideas, and was given full credit for inventing the new science of astrology. His fortune was made.

Whether Estremides ever completed his work on cloudology is unknown, but in time he married Minerva and inherited the groves of Academe. He was philosophical about losing credit for astrology. “You lose some, you Winsome,” he is reported to have said.

Next: the Dark Ages

A HISTORY OF ASTROLOGY